The Dramatic Detective
by blod1tatws
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has caught a disease and seems to be dying. Modern-day adaption of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story, The Dying Detective.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! I recently read this story in the Sherlock Holmes collection and I thought it was really good. So, I thought about doing a modern-day version of it. Not sure if this has been done before, but it's such a good story, who cares how many are there? My third story on fanfic. I haven't forgotten my first story, Feelings, which is also written for Sherlock. I'm just suffering from writer's block when it comes to that story. It's not connected to this story, but you can check it out if you like. I will emphasise that I do not own the programme or the stories/novels, I'm just borrowing them. There would be no point suing me, as I'm in 6****th**** form college so I have no money. Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter 1**

Mrs Hudson, the landlady of 221b Baker Street, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first floor flat invaded at all hours by Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard (with the occasional private client who didn't want to communicate via email), but her lodger Sherlock Holmes showed an eccentricity and urgency in his life which must have repeatedly tried her patience.

Sherlock Holmes was extremely untidy, conducted experiments that would take over the kitchen and often leave a mark on the flat, playing the violin at ungodly hours, shooting the walls with a gun out of sheer boredom, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him. All of this combined, Sherlock Holmes could have been the worst tenant in the whole of London.

But on the other hand, he was never late with the rent and always paid for whatever damage he had caused. He could have bought the flat with the money he was paying Mrs Hudson, but he never considered it.

Mrs Hudson stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to interfere in his life, however outrageous his behaviour was. She was almost like a mother to him, and he had done so much for her over the years like arranging that her husband would be sentenced to death in Florida. Sherlock had a gentleness and courtesy with her (barring the occasional bout over a stolen skull), which only increased her fondness for him. Sherlock was asexual, he didn't necessarily take notice of women (and a great deal of women had tried their luck with him, to no avail), but he was always courteous towards them. All in all, Mrs Hudson and Sherlock had a great relationship.

Knowing how genuine her regard for him was, I listened intently to her news when she came over to my house where I had moved in shortly after my marriage. She told me of the bad health and condition to which my friend had been reduced.

"He's dying, John!" she exclaimed. "He's been getting worse and worse these past three days and I worry he hasn't got long left. He wouldn't let me get a doctor. The bones in his face stick out and his eyes are too bright. I can't stand it anymore! I told him: 'I'm going to get a doctor, Sherlock whether you like it or not.' He just sighed and asked for you. I know you've been busy lately, dear, especially as you've just got married. But I'm worried for him. If you don't come now, maybe you won't see him alive again."

There were tears in her eyes, and her words scared me. I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I assured Mrs Hudson that I would go with her as soon as possible and hurried to put my coat and shoes on. My new house wasn't too far from Baker Street so we walked briskly, and as we did, I asked her for more details on his condition.

"Well, I can't tell you much more, dear. You know how he is when he's on a case. Rushing about everywhere, not stopping to eat, drink or even talk with me. It was inevitable that he would catch some illness." Her voice cracked a bit. "He's been working on a case down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and I bet that's where he got his illness. He was in bed Wednesday afternoon and he hasn't moved from it since! He hasn't eaten or drank anything!" Her voice carried shrilly. We were rushing through the streets, when something occurred to me.

"Why didn't you call a doctor sooner?"

"I told you, he wouldn't have it! You know how he can get. I didn't want to do anything to stress him or make him angry in this state. I don't think he has long left, wait until you see him." She replied. Another thought entered my head.

"Why didn't you call me? Why come and get me?"

"Sherlock said it was better for me to see you. I just did what he said."

Hearing of Sherlock made me worried. I thought he'd been a bit quiet lately. Despite me moving out, we had texted often and even done a few cases. He was my friend, I would always be there for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi again! Thank you everyone for the response to the first chapter, especially alexwacrap and BanditPonyta for their reviews. It's nice to know how much people enjoy the story, and that everyone likes the original. I'll be trying to update as fast as I can but college work is depressing me right now. In my happiness that I had found all my sources for my history coursework, I lost my USB, which has every piece of coursework for all my subjects! I've found it now, thank god! Hope you enjoy this chapter, I don't own any of the characters, just borrowing for my own enjoyment.**

I walked up the stairs in 221b Baker Street, wanting to take them two at a time but Mrs Hudson was in the way. Finally we reached the top and we turned to Sherlock's bedroom door. Mrs Hudson knocked quietly on the door, before opening it. But she didn't go in, just opened it and let me go in instead, before closing the door after.

He did indeed look seriously ill. In the dim light of a foggy November day, Sherlock's room looked gloomy and sad. But it was the gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill in my heart.

His eyes had the brightness of a fever, his face was pale and sunken but with a hectic flush on his cheeks. His lips looked seriously dry, his hands which lay on top of the duvet twitched incessantly but it was his voice that scared me most.

His voice was croaking and spasmodic. It was unlike anything I had heard from him before. I was used to the deep, electrifying voice which commanded attention. But he sounded helpless, he was like a child. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but my appearance in the room brought a gleam of recognition to his face.

"I'm ill, John," he said in a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.

"Sherlock-'' I began as I was approaching him.

"Stand back! Don't come near me!" he said with a sharp imperiousness which I had only associated with moments of urgency. "If you come closer, John, I will order you out of the flat."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to come near me. Is that not enough?"

He was still masterful, even in illness; I guess I should have seen that coming. Every time he was ill when we were living together he was still his usual self, but with the occasional 'poor me' act. He was certainly dramatic. But it was pitiful to see his exhaustion after this brief conversation.

"I only want to help," I explained.

"You will be helping me more by doing what I say."

I sighed. "Yes, fine." He was difficult as usual.

He relaxed a bit after this. "You're not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.

I couldn't be angry with him in this state! He looked so pathetic in the bed, it would have broken the hardest of hearts.

"It's for your own sake, John," he croaked.

"For _my _sake?"

"I know what's wrong with me. It's a coolie disease from Sumatra-a thing the Dutch know more about than we do, though they haven't made much fuss about it. One thing is certain though-it's infallibly deadly and contagious."He spoke with now with a feverish energy, the long and thin hands twitching and jerking as me motioned me to stay away.

"It's contagious by touch, John-yes! By touch. It'll be fine if you keep your distance."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Do you think I care right now? It won't affect me as much as it would a stranger. Do you think I mind by doing my duty for you?" I tried to advance again, but he stopped me with a look of furious anger.

"Just stay where you are! I will talk with you if you stay where you are, but if you don't I will get you out of this room."

I have deep respect for the extraordinary qualities that Sherlock has, and have always done what he's asked me to, even if I didn't agree with them. But now, all my professional instincts kicked in. He could boss me around when we were on a case, but this was my expertise and he couldn't boss me here.

"Sherlock, you're not yourself," I said. "A sick man is like a child, someone has to take care of them. So I will treat you, whether you like it or not. I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them." He looked at me with venomous eyes.

"If I wanted a doctor, John, let me at least have one to whom I have confidence," he said.

"You don't have any confidence in me?"

"In friendship, yes. But facts are facts, John, and after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. I hate to say these things, but you leave me no choice."

I was bitterly hurt. I have heard him criticise me before of course, yet during this time it practically hurt.

"You're subtle, aren't you? I'll just take that as blowing off anger in the state you're in, shall I? But," I said reluctantly, "if you have no confidence in me, I won't do anything. Let me go get Dr Jasper Meek or Dr Penrose-Fisher, or any of the best doctors in London. You've got to have _someone_, and that's final. If you think that I'm going to stand here and see you die without help from me or from anyone else, then you're delusional."

"I know you mean well, John," replied the sick man with something between a sob and a groan. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa corruption?"

"I haven't heard of either before."

"There are many problems of diseases in the East, John." He paused after each sentence to keep his failing strength. "I have learned so much during some recent researches from a medical-criminal aspect. That's how I caught this. You can do nothing for me John, accept it."

"Fine, but I know that Dr Ainstree, the greatest living authority on tropical diseases, is in London right now. I'll go get him, he can help you."I turned resolutely to the door.

**A/N I didn't change what the illness was in the original story. I didn't know what disease to write about so I just left it.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! This is a quicker update, one I didn't think I'd do. But now I have time, i thought I might as well. There was no history class last lesson so I got to go home (always a good thing when you've had English Lit for the past hour and a half, it's just too heavy for a Tuesday afternoon). Thank you to everyone who added this on alerts/favourites and to Banditponyta and alexwacrap again for their reviews. I love reviews! They keep me going. Anyway, enjoy this next chapter. I don't own anything.**

But I didn't go far. Two things happened.

One, Sherlock gave a violent cough which made me spin round to see if he was okay.

And two, when I did turn around, in an instant, with a lightening quick spring, Sherlock (a dying man!) had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key, the door had been locked. The next moment, he staggered back to his bed, exhausted and panting after such a shocking outflame of energy.

"You won't take the key from me, John, even with force. You could try, but even in illness I'd be still beat you. I've got you. You'll stay here until I say otherwise. But I'll humour you." He said all this in little gasps, with terrible struggles for breath in-between. "Look, I know you only have my best interests at heart, I do know that. You can have your way but just give me time to get my strength back. What time is it?"

"It's nearly four," I answered.

"Well, at six you can go," he replied.

"Wha-why? Are you insane? You can't keep me here for _two _hours!"

"It's only two hours, John. I promise to let you go at six. Are you content to wait? You have no other plans?"

"I seem to have no choice," I said reluctantly.

"None in the world, John. Thank you." This shocked me as he rarely said thanks and meant it. I could hear the sincerity in his voice. But it went away again. "Keep your distance! I'm fine, I can do everything. There's another thing I wanted to ask you as well. A condition, let's call it."

I dreaded what came next. "What, Sherlock?" Of course I'd do it, he was my friend but he had a tendency to ask some weird stuff.

"I want you to go get someone, not the man you mentioned, but from someone I choose."

"Oh, by all means," I said in surprise. I was not expecting this.

"The most sensible word you've uttered since you entered the room, John. You will find some books over there. I'm a bit tired to get them myself. I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity to today's technologies? Right, I might go to sleep, we'll talk again about six."

And he did doze off. I've never actually seen him go to sleep, I would just find him awkwardly sleeping on the sofa and he would instantly wake when I came into the room.

But our conversation started long before six, and I was even more shocked at Sherlock's actions this time than I was the last time. I had stood for some minutes looking at the silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the duvet and he appeared to be asleep. I was starting to get tired standing in one place and I couldn't be bothered to read the books Sherlock had pointed me to. I decided to walk slowly round the room, careful not to make any noise or to step on the mess that covered Sherlock's bedroom floor. I examined the pictures of infamous criminals which were on one wall, with an article about their actions beside each one. In my wanderings I came to the bedside cabinet. A litter of papers, nicotine patches, penknives, revolver cartridges, and other debris were scattered all over it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was an unusual thing for Sherlock to have on his cabinet, so I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely-

Sherlock gave an awful cry-a yell which might have been heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair at the back of my neck stood up at that horrible scream. As I turned, I caught a glimpse of a convulsed face and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the box still in my hand.

"Put it down! Put it down NOW, John-this instant!" His head sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I put the box back on the cabinet. "I don't like people touching my personal stuff, John, you know that. You irritate me beyond endurance. You're a doctor, John-you're enough to drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, and let me rest!"

"Yes, fine. Fine. Are you going to insult me again today? Just so I'm prepared the next time," I said bitterly. I didn't like what just happened. The violent and causeless excitement, followed by the brutality of speech, showed me how deep the disorganization of his brilliant mind was. I just went to sit down in silence, watching the clock ticking slowly waiting for it to turn to six. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well, as it was barely six before he began to talk with the same feverish animation as before.

"So, John. Have you got enough cash in your wallet?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello. Thank you so much to BanditPonyta and alexwacrap for their reviews and to everyone who added this on their favourites/alerts. It honestly means a lot, so keep at it! Last time I checked there were a good few who had read this, but I checked it again today and was shocked at how many have read this! Thank you very much! Okay, I'll stop with the thank you's. It's finally half term here in the UK and I have a week off now, yay! And I'm going to see Frankenstein, featuring Benedict Cumberbatch in 8 days! Exciiiiiiited! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I hope you've been enjoying so far, I know it's an original story but I will consider any suggestions you have. **

"So John. Have you got enough cash in your wallet?"

I didn't expect him to ask me that. I was ready for him to just ask me to get the hell out.

"Yes, I think so." I took out my wallet so I could see how much I had.

"How much in notes?" he asked.

"I've got about..." I riffled quickly through my wallet. "About £50, why?"

"Ah, not enough! How unfortunate, John. My wallet is in my coat hanging from the peg over there," pointing to it, "Take £100 from it, I think that will be enough to cover it."

This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound between a cough and a sob.

"Turn that lamp on, John," he pointed at a lamp in the corner farthest away from the bed. I switched it on, and noticed it didn't give much light in the room. I wondered if he wanted me to draw the blind in the window.

"Thank you, John. You don't need to draw the blind," he said, seeming to have read my mind, as usual, "Now will you be so kind as to place my laptop and those papers upon the cabinet so I can reach it. Ah, thank you again. Oh and those letters over there. Excellent, John, you are on fire today. There's some sugar-tongs over there, John and when you've got them, raise the small ivory box with it. When you've done that, place it among the letters and papers for me. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith, at 13 Lower Burke Street."

It was like I was a puppy, or something. To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had weakened, because Sherlock was obviously delirious, and it seemed dangerous to leave him. But he sounded eager for me to consult the person he mentioned, the same eagerness he had when refusing to see a doctor earlier.

"I haven't heard of him before," I said.

"No, probably not. It may surprise you to know that he isn't a doctor who specialises in diseases, but a planter. is a well-known resident of Sumatra, and he's just visiting London for a few weeks. There was an outbreak of this disease upon his plantation, which was far from medical aid. So, he studied the disease himself, with some rather far-fetching consequences. He's a very methodical person, and I didn't want you to get him before six because I was well aware that you wouldn't find him in his study. You could try and persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his unique experience in the disease, I seriously think he will come here and help me."

All of this was accompanied by gasping for breath at the end of every sentence and twitching of his hands which indicated he was in pain. His appearance had changed for the worse during the last few hours that I had been with him. His eyes shone more brightly, red patched appeared here and there on his face and a bead of sweat glimmered on his forehead. But he sounded more like himself in his speech; he would always be the "master."

"Tell him how you left me, exactly the way you left me," he said. "Give him the very impression which is in your mind that I'm a dying man and delirious. 'Twinkle, twinkle, little stars, how I wonder what you are...' Oh, God! My brain! I shouldn't have watched Cbeebies the other day...Where was I?"

"You were giving me directions of what to say to Culverton Smith," I answered patiently.

"Oh, yeah, I remember. Plead with him, John. We're not on the best of terms at the moment. I caught his nephew a few years ago as a part of a gang who stole some diamonds. Unfortunately, the nephew killed himself before the trial, and Smith has held a grudge against me ever since. Soften him up a little; beg him, pay him, just get him here. He's the only one who can save me-the only one!"

"I'll go with him in the cab back, even if I have to drag him here."

"What? No, don't be ridiculous! You'll persuade him to come, and then come back here before him. Make any excuse as to why you're not coming back with him. Please don't forget, John. You won't fail me, you never fail me. Did you watch Rastamouse the other day? The mouse with the reggae band, it was so...No! No! Concentrate! Just tell him how I am," his hands on his head. "And tell him about the Teletubbies, they are all so colourful and fat, with funny names! I have a funny name."

I left him babbling and singing some tune that must have been on that programme he mentioned. I always said he was a child. He handed me the key to the bedroom door, and when I unlocked it, I took it with me in case Sherlock locked the door again. Mrs Hudson was waiting, shacking and teary in the passage. As I went downstairs, I heard Sherlock singing, and despite being sick, his voice was baritone-like. I walked out the house, and stuck out my hand for a cab. My phone bleeped, and I saw a text from Lestrade:

_I heard Sherlock was ill. I thought this would happen. Lestrade_

I put my phone back in my pocket and stepped in the cab that had stopped for me. I was anxious of what was ahead.

**A/N The story will really get started in the next couple of chapters. Please stick with me!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi everyone! Wow, the response from the last chapter was amazing! Thank you so much everyone! I would have updated earlier but I've been working all day Saturday and today so I'm a bit tired! Special thanks to Maugreyfiliae, BanditPonyta, Ladyofthelake13 and doctorwhofangirl for their brilliant reviews! And thanks to everyone who added this on alerts/favourites as well. Anyway, hope you enjoy this. No actual Sherlock, but we have the lovely John! **

**P.S I'm thinking of doing another story, bringing the originals to modern-day. Any suggestions, anything you liked or want to see modern-day? PM me or leave a review! Thank you!**

The cab had driven up, and we were off.

Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses, not far from Notting Hill and Kensington. How come Sherlock didn't run around here chasing criminals? I thought I had been all over London, but obviously I hadn't. When the cabbie pulled up at the address that I told him, I was taken-aback. The house had an air of smugness and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding-door, and its shining brass work. I was nervous walking to the door; my hands were sweating and hot. I got even more nervous when after I knocked, a butler opened the door. He was dressed in the usual butler outfit you often see on television; crisp black suit and a solemn expression.

"Um, hello. Is Mr. Culverton Smith here?" I asked, my voice going all quiet.

"Yes, Mr Smith is in. May I ask your name, sir?"

"Oh, John Watson. Doctor John Watson," I added hurriedly.

"Very well, Sir, I will tell him you are asking for him."

My name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.

"Who is this person? What does he want? Staples! How often have I told you that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"

There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

"Well I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my work interrupted like this. I'm not at home, say so. Tell him to come in the morning if he really must see me." Again, I heard the gentle murmurs of the butler.

"Just give him that message! He can come in the morning, or he can stay away. My work must not be hindered!"

I thought of Sherlock tossing and turning in his bed, counting the minutes until I could bring help to him. This was not the time to stand there and do nothing. His life depended upon my persistence and my caring, but stubborn nature. Before the apologetic butler could deliver his message, I pushed past him and went into the room that I had heard the voices come from earlier.

With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair besides a fire. I saw a great yellow face, tired-looking and greasy, with a heavy double-chin and two sullen, menacing gray eyes which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows which sat on his high forehead. His head was abnormally big because his figure was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like he had suffered some sort of illness.

"What do you think you're doing?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is the meaning of this? Didn't I tell Staples that I would see you tomorrow morning?"

"I'm sorry," said I, "but I can't leave this until tomorrow. Sherlock Holmes-"

The mention of Sherlock's name seemed to have an effect on Culverton Smith. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His features became tense and alert.

"Holmes? You're here for Holmes?" he asked.

"Yes, he sent me."

"What about him? He's alright, isn't he?"

"He's very ill, Mr Smith. That's why I'm here."

He waved me to a chair, and he went to sit in the chair he'd been lounging on when I burst in. As he sat down, I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. The room was dark, the only light coming from the fire, which gave off a Victorian feeling. I could have sworn that his face was set in a malicious and abominable smile. But I persuaded myself that it must have been the trick of the flickering fire, because he turned to me a second later with genuine concern on his face.

"I'm sorry to hear this," he said. "I only know Mr. Holmes through some...business dealings we had. But I have every respect for his talents and his work. He is an amateur of crime; I am an amateur of diseases. For him the criminal, for me the microbe. My work is over there," he continued, pointing to a row of beakers and tubes covering the table.

"Sherlock told me about your work and special knowledge in diseases, and he asked me to come and speak with you. He has a high opinion of you and thought you were the one man in London who could help him, and that's saying something."

He stared at me, but didn't say anything for a few minutes.

"Why?" he asked. "Why would Sherlock Holmes think that I could help him?"

"Well, because you know of this illness."

"But why would he think that he contracted _this_ disease?"

"He's been working in an alley, something to do with Eastern...something." To be honest, I had no idea what case he had been working on.

"But why does he think this disease is Eastern?"

"I think he had been working among Chinese men down by the river." He smiled pleasantly at me, like he was humouring me.

"That's it? I trust the matter isn't as serious as you suppose. How long has he been ill?"

"About three days."

"Is he delirious?"

"Occasionally."

"Really? Hm, this sounds serious. It would be inhuman of me to ignore him, I suppose. I don't really like any interruptions to my work, Dr. Watson, but this is an exception. I will go with you right now."

Before I nodded, I remembered Sherlock's instructions before I left.

"Oh, I can't go with you. I need to meet my, um, wife."

"Oh, that's alright. I'll go alone. Where does he live now?"

"221b Baker Street," I answered.

"I'll be there in half an hour at the most."

I muttered a thank you and a goodbye, and left. The butler let me out, and I went in search of a cab. When I found one, I told him to take me to 221b Baker Street, as soon as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to BanditPonyta and alexwacrap for their reviews, and to everyone who added this on their favourites/alerts. Quick update, maybe I'll update tomorrow as well. I'm going to London on Friday, and then to watch Frankenstein on Saturday with my fellow Sherlock/Benedict fan! Beyond excited! Don't know when the next update will be, but I hope you enjoy anyway. **

I arrived back at 221b Baker Street with a heavy heart. I was happy that I had persuaded Culverton Smith to come here later, but I had no idea how Sherlock would be after my absence. He could be worse, inching closer to death. But to my enormous relief, he had actually improved. His appearance was the same, but he wasn't as delirious as he had been and his voice sounded more like its usual self. He turned to look at me when I walked into the room.

"Ah, John. Did you see him?"

"Yes, he's on his way," I replied.

"Brilliant! Brilliant, John! You're a really good messenger."

"He wanted to come back with me."

"Oh, that would've been bad. That would have been impossible." He sighed, and turned his face to stare at the ceiling. "Did he ask what was wrong with me?"

"Yes, I told him you were on a case, and what disease you had caught."

"Well, John. You've exceeded my expectations. You're a really good friend." This brought a smile to my face, he rarely complimented me. "But you can disappear now."

The smile fell from my face. Why did he do stuff like this? Praised me one second then said something contradicting.

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock. I want to know what he says to you."

"I know that. I told you to disappear, not go away. I'd think he would be more honest and valuable to me if he thought I was alone. There's room in my wardrobe, John." I was completely lost.

"Sherlock, are you delirious again?"

"No! Oh, but I did hear a good song the other day. It was called Sunday, or something of that name. It was by a band called Hurts. Funny that, isn't it? Everything hurts for me right now and- why did you let me go off like that? Stop me when I do that, John! It's pointless because I'll delete that information soon." He glared at me. "If you're in the wardrobe, he'll have no idea that I'm not alone. And you can hear everything in there. And see, I'd imagine. There's a small hole right there," he pointed it out to me, "which you will be able to see from without being detected. I doubt he'll be interested in my wardrobe."

I was speechless. But I didn't have to say anything, because at that moment a squeaking of brakes was heard, and when I went to look out the window, I saw a cab stop just outside 221b.

"He's here, John." He must have heard the brakes as well, though how he knew it was a cab, I'll never know.

"Get in the wardrobe! Don't move, don't speak, don't breath. Just listen with all your ears." I couldn't help smile at what he said, I heard him say it before, in the same urgent tone. But when I looked at Sherlock again, his strength left him, and his masterful, purposeful talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of the delusional self from earlier.

I went into the wardrobe, making sure I was in a position to see from the small hole (lord knows why there was a hole in his wardrobe) and not making any noise. I could hear Sherlock singing quietly.

"_But until you come back where you belong, it's just another lonely Sunday."_

Then I heard light footsteps on the stairs, I didn't hear the doorbell because I was listening to Sherlock. The door opened and closed quickly, no knocking or anything. But what surprised me more was the long silence since Culverton Smith entered the room, broken only by the heavy breathing and gasping coming from Sherlock. I could imagine Culverton standing by the door; I couldn't see this from where I was. I heard him move closer to the bed, until I finally saw him. At last, the strange silence was broken.

"Sherlock!" he cried in an insistent tone. "Sherlock! Can you hear me?" There was a rustling, as if he had shaken Sherlock roughly by the shoulder.

"Is that you, Mr. Smith?" Sherlock whispered. "I didn't think you'd come."

Culverton Smith just laughed lightly.

"Yes, I thought you wouldn't," he said. "And yet, I'm here."

"It's very...nice of you, very noble even. I appreciate your special knowledge." I heard Smith snigger.

"You do? Unfortunately, you are the only man in London who does. Do you know what's wrong with you exactly?"

"The same," Sherlock said. This confused me.

"You recognize the symptoms?"

"Only too well."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if it _were_ the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. A poor man was dead on the fourth day of his illness, and he was a strong man. It was certainly surprising that two people would catch this disease in the heart of London- a disease that I have made a special study of too. Coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it."

"I know that you did it, Smith. I know it was you that caused that man's death."

**A/N Sorry to stop it there folks, it does look a bit random. But you know, keeping suspense...or trying to anyway. I have loved writing this story, and we're not far off from the end. Thanks for sticking with it so far, please stay with me for just a while. Reviews are helpful too! **

**P.S I've been obsessed with that song (Sunday-Hurts) for the past couple of days, their album is amazing! Youtube the song to know what Sherlock is singing. Thank you!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello! Sorry about the late update, but I had loads of coursework to do, and I went to London over the weekend. I saw Frankenstein! It was amazing! I've already booked cinema tickets to see it again, on the 17****th**** and the 24****th****. Despite the really good weather, I hate being back at college. I think I haven't written a word in three full days! Anyways, enjoy this chapter. The next chapter will be the last, nothing I can do about that. I am going to write another modern-day adaption, though I'm not sure which story yet. Any suggestions? Hey, maybe you don't want read another adaption, let me know each way. Don't own, just for fun.**

"Oh you do, do you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of game are you playing, Holmes?"

I heard the rasping, laboured breathing coming from Sherlock. "Water! Get me some water!" he gasped.

"You're nearing the end, Holmes, but I don't want you to go until I have a word with you. That's the only reason I'm giving you this water." I watched Smith leaning to get the water which was on the cabinet beside Sherlock's bed. I didn't remember seeing it when I was last here, and I don't know how I missed it earlier. I must have been too focused on Sherlock. Smith took the water from Sherlock a second later, and I heard Sherlock groan.

"C'mon Smith, let bygones be bygones," Sherlock whispered. "I'll delete the information from my head-I swear I will. Just cure me, and I'll delete it."

"Delete what?"

"Well, about that man, Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now that you did it. I'll forget it."

"You can forget it or remember it, do what you like. I don't see you in the witness-box. Quite another shaped box, Holmes, I assure you. It doesn't matter to me that you should know how that man died. It's not him we are talking about, it's you."

"Yes, yes."

"The man that came to me- I've forgotten his name- said that you contracted it in an alley by the river."

"Yes."

"You're proud of your brains, aren't you, Holmes? Think yourself smart, don't you? But you've come across someone smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have got this disease?"

"I can't think. My mind is gone. For god's sake, help me!"

"Okay, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."

"Give me something to stop the pain."

"Painful, is it?" The gleeful tone in which Smith said that enraged me. I was close to bursting out the wardrobe and punching him. But Sherlock had told me not to do anything but be still and quiet here, so I kept my fist where it was. "Yes, the disease causes a...little discomfort towards the end. Something like a cramp, I'd imagine."

I saw Sherlock nod his head, wincing as he did so.

"Well, you can still hear what I have to say. Listen now!" His voice was low, but vicious. "Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?"

"No, no; nothing."

"Think again."

"I'm in too much pain to think."

"Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by post?"

"By post?"

"A box, by any chance?"

"Smith-I don't feel...I feel faint..." It took everything I had not to go to Sherlock.

"Listen, Holmes!" There was a sound as if he was shaking Sherlock again. "You must hear me. You _will _hear me. Do you remember a box-an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it- do you remember?"

"Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke-"

"Oh, it wasn't a joke, as you will find out soon. You idiot, you got the disease from this box. I sent it. You should have stuck your nose out my nephew's business. If you would have left me alone, you would not be dying right now," Smith said scornfully.

"I remember," Sherlock gasped. "The spring! It drew blood. The box-the box that is on my cabinet."

"The very one! And it may as well leave the room with me when I go. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of Victor Savage's death, so you can go the same way as him. You're near your end, Holmes. I will sit and watch you die."

Sherlock's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

"What did you say?" Smith asked. "Put the lights on? You've already got that lamp over there on. Oh, it's too dark is it? Okay, I'll turn the lights on. I can see you dying better that way." He laughed, and I saw him cross the room and the click of the switch gave light to the room. "Is there another little service that I can do for you, Holmes?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"A cigarette and a lighter." I nearly let out a giggle then. In his dying moments, Sherlock only wanted a cigarette. I wanted to be there with him, by his bedside. Not this cold-blooded... there was not a strong enough adjective to describe him.

"I probably shouldn't smoke, John would be angry with me. Nicotine patches!"

I couldn't believe it! Sherlock was speaking in his natural voice- a little weak, maybe, but the voice I knew better than my own. There was a long pause, and I saw Smith stand in silent amazement looking down at my friend.

"What the-?" I heard Smith say at last in a dry, rasping tone.

"The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," said Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

**Can't believe this is the end! I have loved writing this; I've had so much fun. I'm sorry to end it, especially because I've had such amazing feedback. I want to thank athena2517 and detectiveatwork for their reviews on the last chapter, and big thanks to everyone has reviewed this since the beginning. I'm planning another modern-day adaption, not sure which story yet. I have loads of coursework to do by the end of the month, so the new story won't be up for a while. I might finish my story, 'Feelings' soon. Author alert me if you're interested in another story. Or not, it's okay. Reviews would be nice as well. Again, thanks to everyone, bye!**

"The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," Sherlock said. "I haven't eaten or drank anything for days, not until that glass of water you gave me. I could do with some nicotine patches though. Oh, here they are." He reached out and grabbed the packet. I heard him rip the packet open and breathe a sigh of relief when he put two patches on. "Much better. Do you hear something, Smith? I think that's footsteps." His voice was filled with amusement.

I could also hear footsteps, just coming up the stairs. The door burst open, and Lestrade walked in with three other officers.

"About time, Lestrade. Here's your man," Sherlock said. Lestrade gave Smith the usual cautions.

"You are under arrest on charge for the murder of Victor Savage," he started.

"You might want to add the charge of attempted murder as well, Lestrade. I mean, he did try to kill me too," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "Mr. Smith was good enough to give the signal by switching the light on. Oh, by the way. He has a small ivory box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which would be a good idea to remove." An officer did what he said.

"Be careful with it! It might play a part in the trial."

There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the click of handcuffs and a cry of pain.

"You're making it worse for yourself, Smith," remarked Lestrade. "Stand still, will you?"

"A nice trick, Holmes!" cried the high, snarling voice. "_You_ should be in the dock, not me. He asked me to come here and cure him. I felt sorry for him so I came. It's just insane suspicions. He's made all this up. You're lying, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours."

"Of course, Smith, you're right," replied Sherlock. "Thank you for reminding me. John, I apologise for forgetting you were there. How stupid of me. You've met Doctor John Watson, Smith? You met him today, didn't you?"

Smith just glared at Sherlock. I came out of the wardrobe, stretching a bit after being hunched up for a while. Sherlock gave a little smile, and winked in my direction. He turned and faced Lestrade.

"John is a witness. Oh, and to make sure, Smith, I have recorded all of this on my phone." He picked up his phone and started playing back the conversation. Smith turned deathly pale. "Take him away, Lestrade. I'll get a cab later and come to Scotland Yard."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I need a statement from you. Of all the things you've done to catch a criminal, this has to be the weirdest."

Lestrade and his officers went away, dragging Smith with them. Hearing the door slam, Sherlock got up from the bed. He reached out for the glass of water, and gulped it all in two seconds.

"I know I have a bad habit of not eating on cases, but not drinking anything-not even coffee! - was horrible." He had dressed in his usual black trousers and put a purple shirt on. The dark colours of his clothes still make him look really ill, even though I knew he had been faking it. The fact that he hadn't eaten or drank anything for days worried me, despite his reassurance that he was used to it. I have seen him faint on occasions, and I was on the lookout for more collapsing. He quickly went to the bathroom where I saw him wash his face. We then moved into the living room.

"Will you stop worrying about me? I'm fine," he said shortly. He had read my mind. Again.

"You've made yourself ill to catch a criminal. I thought you were stupid in meeting that cabbie with the suicides, but this takes the biscuit," I replied.

"Oh, biscuits. I have a packet of digestives here somewhere." He rushed to the kitchen, and started searching for said biscuits. How he had the strength to do so, I had no idea. He always surprised me, in everything he did. I heard him whisper a triumphant 'Yes!' and come back into the living room holding the packet of biscuits in one hand, ripping it with the other. He fell dramatically onto the sofa, and started to munch on the biscuits. I sighed at his diet, and went to make him a sandwich, pour more water into a glass and getting an extra glass for orange juice, and grabbing an apple on my way back to the living room. In the time I had been in the kitchen, he had eaten half the packet. For a man who rarely ate, he ate like a horse.

"You're angry with me, I know. But I'm fine. I had to be realistic, and your acting skills aren't the best," he remarked. I tried not to take offence. "I needed you to actually believe that I was dying, so you could persuade Smith to come here. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was certain that he would come here and admire his 'work.'"

"But how did you look so ill? Your face was...ghastly," I said whilst going to sit in my old chair.

"Three days of no food and drink does that to someone you know, John. Some Vaseline was handy as well. As for the delusional mumbling, I had to watch a horrible amount of rubbish kids' channel. It's ridiculous what people call educating these days. And you remember that song I sung? Well I don't. I do remember hearing it on the odious Radio 1 when coming home in a cab a few weeks ago, though."

Something occurred to me. "But why didn't you let me near you when there was no disease to catch?"

"My god, you're dense. Do you think I have no respect for your medical talents?" He sounded frustrated.

"Well, you did insult my 'talents' several times."

"If you checked over me in my 'illness,' I wouldn't be able to fake not having a high temperature and erratic pulse. If you were farther away from me, I could deceive you that I was dying."

This, weirdly, made sense to me.

"What happened that day the ivory box was sent? How did you avoid being pricked by it?" I asked.

"There was a sharp spring like a viper's tooth that comes out when you open the box. You can just see it if you look at it sideways, which I did," he explained. "That's how Victor Savage died, I'd imagine. Smith is clever, but he's too lazy to change tactics. I get tons of mail with some odd things in them, so I was on my guard. I had suspected that was how Savage was killed, so I was even more on my guard when something came through the post."

"So you decided to make yourself ill to catch Smith?"

"I wanted a confession! And it's always good to change my methods in catching criminals. Makes life much less dull."

"You are a complete idiot, aren't you?" In our conversation he had attacked the food in front of him, and had finished in record time for him.

"Yes, thank you, John. Want to go to Angelo's?" He stood up, grabbed his coat and scarf, and raced downstairs, where I joined him seconds later.


	9. Ce n'est pas un chapter!

**Hi everyone! I've enjoyed writing this kind of story, and especially enjoyed the reaction it got. Many of you asked me to write another updated version of a story, and good news!**

**I've already started it, an adaption of 'The Devil's foot'. That is if I don't get frustrated over it, and stop writing. **

**I really hope you'll stay with me on it, I get a sense of happiness when I write. **

**I've finished two subjects for A Levels already, all my coursework is in, and I only have 2 exams-2 days right after each other and then I'm free to enjoy my summer! Meaning: I'll actually get to write more!**

**Tell me what you think of this current plan, and if you think I should write another instead of the one I'm planning. I hate writing these messages, I sound like such an idiot. Oh well, I do that most days. **

**Thanks everyone!**


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